by Ralph Rotten
“Well, no, he just said that some guy in a hoodie did it.” His eyes reaffixed to the ship that floated before them, Agent Lopamaua was more than a little distracted by it all. Rubbing his head with a meaty paw, he suddenly remembered a detail. “Oh, yeah, he said the guy attached some kind of discs to the ship. You can see ‘em at the front and back of the ship.”
“Bow and stern.” Jenna clarified the terminology for her partner. Feeling the breeze shift slightly, she decided it was time to take command of the situation. “Rangi, I need you to get the locals to set a perimeter around the place. When the wind changes the ship will swing around, so for safety purposes we need to clear out everyone from underneath its arc. We have no idea how long that thing is going to stay up there, so we’ll just plan for it to come crashing down at any minute.”
“Got it. What you gonna do?” Agreeable to her game plan, the big Samoan seemed curious about her next step. Personally, he was at a complete loss how to proceed with an event like this. In fact, he was not entirely sure if this was even a violation of federal law.
“I am going to start with the basics. They must have security cameras, then interview the security guard, start combing the area for witnesses, and search the patent office for an invention like this in the last twelve months.” Standing with hands on hips, Jenna tried to appear confident even though the sight took her breath away.
“You got it Boss.” Grinning, the big man sauntered off towards the local officers who clustered a short distance away.
“Un-fucking-believable.” She allowed herself a rare profanity as she eyed the tin plates that were no more than dots at this range.
By 9:00am the story had come to dominate the news, social media, and every channel on TV. Initially hailed as a YouTube hoax, it took a while for the world to realize that this was no clever digital editing; someone had indeed levitated 81,000 tons of ship. Without a doubt it was the heaviest vehicle ever placed aloft. Even the legendary Space Shuttle, fully loaded with fuel and boosters checked in at a mere 2,200 tons. Yet there on the screen for the world to see was a vessel as large as a WWII aircraft carrier floating peacefully with no obvious means of suspension. Immediately the conspiracy theories began to fly. It was the government…it was aliens…or her favorite; it was the government using alien technology captured at Roswell in ‘47. The list went on and on; there was no limit to the press’s imagination.
As if the media storm had not been enough to jolt the world awake that morning, the war-hawks had seen this as a potential threat. Immediately the Navy, Air Force, Marines, Army, and National Guard were placed on alert. Knowing that the event had not been orchestrated by them, the vast American war machine suspected the next logical possibility: That it had been done by one of their enemies.
With an immense flat screen TV rolled into the Oval Office, President Jefferson Phelps had cancelled his appointments for the morning. Although urgent matters of state beckoned him, they paled in comparison to this event. His generals and cabinet staff had been frenzied when the event first became known. Acting with only slightly more discipline than the press, they had allowed conjecture and suspicion to dominate the tone of their conversation. If they were not behind it then surely it was the act of a malevolent nation. But that led to the next logical question; why?
Sitting back in his chair, President Phelps assumed a thoughtful demeanor as he considered the options. It bothered him that despite his intelligence he was truly stumped for a course of action. A member of Mensa for more than twenty years, he had campaigned as the smart candidate, convincing voters that his opponent simply lacked the mental faculties for the job. But as he stared at the live feed of the ship that hovered over the bay, he was at a complete loss. Not only did he not have a clue who could have accomplished such a feat, but he could not even imagine the technology capable of lofting that much steel. Ever aware of the old adage: tis better to be thought a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt, President Phelps preferred to remain silent while his minions debated the situation.
As the hours had stretched on, he had found himself increasingly agitated by it all. He was leader of the most powerful nation in the history of humanity, and yet he was relegated to getting his intel from the very same media vultures that he had lambasted since his election. It had been a vitriolic campaign and he was prone to lashing out at anyone who disagreed with him. Chief among these was the press. Though they had utterly despised him from the start, it had been they who had essentially given him conversational dominance by panning every derogatory statement and action committed by the man. Very early on he had learned how to manipulate them by using social media and acerbic statements to draw attention away from the other candidates. Even as they decried him for the demagogue he was, the press simply could not look away. He had likened it to the effect of drivers passing an accident by the side of the road; they felt compelled to leer at the destruction, ever hopeful of seeing carnage. The mantra of the modern American media could be succinctly summed up with a single statement; if it bleeds, it leads.
Shifting in his seat, he felt his ire rising as his Chief of Staff changed the channel to see what the other news agencies had to say. While there had been nothing new for hours, the reporters continually found creative ways to regurgitate the same information.
“Bill,” finally sitting forward, he directed his anger towards the FBI director who was supposed to be his chief source of domestic intelligence. “Bill, this is a disaster. The damned fake-news reporters know more about this situation than I do.”
Jolting as the President slammed a fist on the desk, FBI Director William D. Harding had been one of the few holdovers from the previous administration. Rumored to have kept his job by surreptitiously using his position to discredit the opposition candidate, he knew that he served at the pleasure of the President. The leader of the free world did not need any kind of justification to cut him loose; he could be terminated on a whim, and this president had a lot of whims.
“We should have a report compiled…” His explanation was cut off by the man behind the desk.
“I want something right now. This is very troubling that I have not been able to make a statement. It’s a disaster. I need information, and I need it now.” His eyes narrowed to angry slits, President Jefferson Phelps had never been fond of his FBI director. But a deal was a deal, and the man had essentially given him the presidency in the final weeks of the campaign.
“I’m on it…” Harding again found himself interrupted.
“No, I want to talk to the case officer directly. I’m tired of your long-winded reports, blah, blah, blah. I want to talk to someone who has real information.” Again slamming a fist on the desk, the President’s delicately coiffed comb-over seemed to bounce under the weight of so much hair spray.
“Yes, sir.” Feeling the pressure, Director Harding knew better than to object. Making a quick call on the secure line, he finally turned to the President and assembled Cabinet with a hopeful look.
“Sir, I have the case agent on the line.” Holding out the receiver, he expected the President to snatch it out of his hands.
Instead, Phelps sat back and gestured angrily to the phone on his desk. “Put him on speakerphone.”
Nodding silently, the director decided against his instinct to point out that some of the people in the room may not be cleared for this conversation. Until they knew the details, it seemed haphazardly unwise to share the information so broadly. Despite this, he knew not to anger Jefferson Phelps any further.
“This is Special-Agent Jenna Jaramillo on the line.” Clicking the appropriate button, he switched the phone to an external speaker.
“Agent Jaramillo here.” Jenna’s voice held a note of confidence, though it was really more false bravado than anything else. She was still stunned by the revelation that she would be addressing the President directly.
“She’s a woman?” Mumbling in a low voice, Phelps spoke without thinking. “Agent…”
&nbs
p; “Jaramillo.” The director filled in the blank.
“Agent Jaramillo, what can you tell me about this? Are the Russians behind this?” Confident in his assumption that it had to be one of their enemies, he had already ruled out most other options.
“Actually, Mister President, I have found no evidence of malevolence. From everything we have learned thus far, this was done as a proof of concept.” Speaking up to be heard over the ambient noise, Jenna tried not to sound as if she were shouting. Unfortunately, it was chaos in Long Beach.
“Proof of concept?” Raising an eyebrow, the leader of the free world tried to appear confident as he failed to understand the term.
“Yes sir, we have no evidence to support this being done by foreign actors. It is my belief that this event was orchestrated as a way to conclusively prove that the…invention works. Essentially parties unknown levitated the Queen Mary as a way to prove beyond the shadow of any doubt that this technology exists.”
“Agent…” Phelps trailed off as he tried to remember her name once again.
“Jaramillo.” The FBI director hissed her name.
“Agent Jaramillo, I’d appreciate it if you stuck to the facts and kept your unsupported beliefs to yourself. What do we know for sure about this…event?” Gruff in his response, President Phelps was dismissive of things that did not fit with his preconceived beliefs.
“Yes, sir.” Jenna’s voice changed slightly before she continued. “At zero-four thirty this morning a man landed here in Long Beach, attached a pair of metal discs to the hull of the RMS Queen Mary, then appeared to make it levitate in front of a witness. The security footage shows that he flew away under his own power when he was done.”
There was a collective gasp from those gathered there in the room before Phelps cut in again.
“What exactly do you mean he flew away under his own power? You mean he was wearing some kind of jet pack?”
“No jetpack, sir. He seemed to float away from the scene, presumably using the same technology used to levitate the ship. I can forward you copies of the footage, but we currently have it being analyzed by experts from MIT and CalTech.” It pained Jenna to have so little to give the commander-in-chief. Under normal circumstances she would have progressed much further in her investigation, but this was by no means a normal case.
“What is being done about the ship? Have we figured out what’s keeping it up there?” His face dour, President Phelps was irritated at the FBI’s progress.
“We have a science team here from DHS, and they have deployed a pair of drones to study the discs that were attached to the bow and stern of the ship, but at this time they simply appear to be…tin plates.”
Turning away slightly, the President listened as his chief advisor whispered into his ear; something Phelps only permitted with his closest allies. In this case the adviser who wore a $4,000 handmade suit was his son-in-law.
Leaning back towards the speaker phone, the President considered how to phrase his next sentence. With his advisor’s words still swirling in his head, and a room full of witnesses, he knew that careful phrasing was called for.
“You say this is a proof of concept, to show off an invention, so I need you to put this man in direct contact with me or my staff. Do we understand each other Agent…?”
“Jaramillo.” Harding hissed the name, knowing that Phelps had already forgotten.
“Agent Jaramillo, do we have an understanding?” Phelps’s face showed irritation at his FBI director. It bothered him to have the man filling in the blanks for him as if he could not remember her name on his own. After all, he was a documented genius.
“Uh,” Jenna’s voice held a note of hesitancy. “Sir, I will definitely do what I can, but thus far the inventor has left absolutely no clues as to his or her identity.”
Phelps gave a snicker at the last part. In his mind it was unlikely that such a device could have been invented by a woman.
“Agent, just find out who he is, and don’t let anyone else near him. This is a national security issue and we have serious concerns with this falling into the wrong hands. Do you understand me?” Gravel in his voice, the President did not like being disputed.
After disconnecting the line, the commander-in-chief turned to his son-in-law with an odd expression. “What kind of name is Hara…whatever?”
“I believe it is Hispanic, Mister President.” Though he was on a first name basis with Phelps, the advisor used his formal title in front of witnesses. He knew it pleased his father-in-law to do it that way.
“We have some footage of her at the scene.” Hardin flipped through the recordings that had been made by the chief of staff. There in the middle of the swarm of police, giving directions, was Jenna Jaramillo. Having shed her blazer in the warmth of the morning, she wore a light blue shirt accented by the holstered duty weapon on her side. Turning towards the camera she noticed the reporter before ordering the nearest uniformed officer to deal with the intrusion.
“She’s quite attractive.” His eyes roving her form, Phelps could not help but admire her physique, even if she was a bit too tan for his tastes. “Are you sure there’s not a more qualified agent to manage this? This is a big deal. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has been reminding me all morning about how this is the greatest invention since gun powder.”
Having come to know the President well, Hardin fully understood the man’s underlying motivations. It came as no surprise that he would prefer a more senior agent in charge. One a little more male, and a lot more Caucasian.
“She is eminently qualified. This is the agent who solved the Halloween Gang case. Not only did she track them down, but she blew those sons of bitches into smithereens.” Hardin raised an eyebrow.
“Blew them to…?” Phelps raised an eyebrow.
“They chose to engage in a gunfight while carrying explosives in their vehicle, so she blew them up. Saved us the expense of prosecuting them.” Nodding to reinforce his statement, Hardin was trying hard to convince his boss that despite her gender, she was fully qualified to handle the job. After all, if the President doubted her abilities, it would reflect on the Director for having allowed her to be the lead agent on the case. Already on thin ice, Hardin had grounds to worry about his future in the administration.
There was a round of surprise from the people in the Oval Office as they listened to how Jenna had dispatched the Halloween Gang. There were a number of them who actually remembered the news coverage about that event, so it surprised them that this was THE agent who had generated all that press.
“Fine, fine.” Phelps agreed before dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. Turning to his son-in-law, he beckoned the advisor close as they exchanged words.
From his spot on the other side of the desk, Hardin knew exactly what they were doing. He had been around this president too long to not recognize when the man was going around him. No doubt his chief advisor would use his own contacts to find a more suitable agent to handle the negotiations. Swallowing hard, the FBI director knew better than to call them on it.
Hearing the line click off, Jenna clipped the phone back onto her belt, opposite her duty weapon. Looking up, she caught Rangi’s curious expression. Ever the upbeat one, the big Samoan always had a half-crazy grin on his face.
“So, did he make you director or what?” Showing that lopsided grin of his, Agent Lopamaua revealed a row of crooked teeth.
“Yeah…no.” She shook her head with a grimace. Brushing a strand of brown hair back out of her eyes, she had been able to hear a troubling amount of information over the speaker phone. In truth she had found the whole conversation a bit creepy.
“Well, so what did he say?” Towering over her, Rangi actually cast a shadow over Jenna.
“He wants the invention, wants it bad. We are to locate this guy and feed him to the White House for final disposition.” Looking down she thought it through with a frown on her face. There was something about Phelps’ attitude that had bothered her. More than
his sexist attitude towards her, it was the way he assumed that the invention would be theirs regardless of the inventor’s intentions. On the other hand, she could well see the need to control this device. Already she had her people watching for potential agents that could be trying to reach the inventor before she could. A break through like this could easily change the balance of power in the world.
But none of that diminished the sense of foreboding she felt.
Fox Hunt
Jamie had found it more efficient to allow Alexis to filter out the ocean of voices that came in through the drones’ trio of microphones. Parked at strategic locations throughout the second floor of the FBI building, they could hear a lot of chatter. However, the savant did not need, or even want, most of it. The devices were not in place to spy on the agency, but to monitor their reactions to the events unfolding on TV. He had to know what they knew about him and his brother. Hence, Jamie had assigned Alexis the job of sorting through the chatter for any reference to the Queen Mary or the people responsible for her levitation. At the same time the AI could quite literally forget the other classified information that she had overheard, purging it from her archives. Jamie had been specific that she have none of that information in her data servers when the feds searched her. By the savant’s thinking, capture was inevitable. His primary concern was making sure they were captured by the right people.
Already his search algorithm had spotted three potential agents of foreign origin. The press coverage of the Queen Mary was intense, and gave them miles of footage showing the crowds who clamored around the perimeter. It was a simple enough string of code for the savant to write. Designed to prioritize the targets being analyzed by focusing on atypical facial expressions, the algorithm narrowed the field rather than examining every single face. In essence, the code knew that a man with a dour expression in a crowd of cheering people was atypical to the event. From there, Alexis could run a basic facial analysis on each, then compare the results to the database of vehicles parked for 12 blocks in every direction. People had to get there somehow, so they would have a car, and with traffic cams everywhere, it was no mean feat to figure out who the dour man was.